Long and Short Reviews welcomes Maria Vale who is celebrating the upcoming release of Forever Wolf. Enter the Rafflecopter at the end of the page for a chance to win a copy of The Last Wolf.

Born with one blue eye and one green, Eyulf was abandoned as an infant and has never understood why, or what he is…Varya is fiercely loyal to the Great North Pack, which took her in when she was a teenager. While out on patrol, Varya finds Eyulf wounded and starving and saves his life, at great risk to her own.

Legend says his eyes portend the end of the world…or perhaps, the beginning…

With old and new enemies threatening the Great North, Varya knows as soon as she sees his eyes that she must keep Eyulf hidden away from the superstitious wolves who would doom them both. Until the day they must fight to the death for the Pack’s survival, side by side and heart to heart…

Enjoy an Excerpt

“There were gunshots,” Eyulf says as I clean out the reopened wound with a rag dipped in the last of the Seagram’s. “They could have hurt you.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have followed me. You could have killed them. Turn over? Wolves don’t reveal themselves to humans, and they certainly don’t kill them unless it is a matter of the life or death.”

He turns onto his belly, and I start to pick out more embedded forest litter.

“But it was a matter of life or death,” he says. “They were shooting at you.”

“The life or death of the Pack. A single wolf means nothing.”

I pluck out several bits of fur. And a beetle wing.

“It does mean something. You mean something. You mean something to me.”

And small stones.

And a single pine needle. “I have to tell the Pack.”

“Are you listening to me?” He turns quickly, his hands on either side of my face.

“Your leg is—”

“Fine. My leg is fine. I could leave now and be no worse off. It’s what I do. A new place. Another page in my book. Except I would be worse off because now I know what’s here and what I want but don’t have.”

I stare down at the collection nested in my palm— stone, fur, wing, needle. Tesserae in the mosaic of the Great North. Of Homelands.

What have I done? Wolves are raised with uncompromising loyalty to Pack, to land and to our wild. Even our exiles would never betray our existence, but Eyulf was not raised like we are.

“You can’t tell anyone about the Pack.” My voice sounds panicked. Not at all like the Alpha command I’d intended. “You can’t—”

“I wasn’t talking about the Pack, Varya. That’s where your mind always goes, but not mine. I was talking about you.”

He bends down, looking me in the eye. How could anyone think his eyes were a curse? Blue and green. The promise of heaven and earth.

“I’m talking about you,” he says again.

He moves his hand to my hair and sweeps it back, touching my neck gently. He leans close. “You said before that another wolf’s mark had to be offered. That it meant they are responsible for each other. That they belong together. I want to belong. But not to the Pack. I want to belong to you.”

His thumb moves across my cheek and moves until his jaw almost touches mine, and then he stops. Waiting for me to say no or simply move away. I move closer, partly because I feel woozy and partly because this is what I want. I have only taken the Alpha’s mark, the mark that binds me to the entire Pack, but now…now I want this single scent, this single wolf, this single belonging.

Eyulf takes a deep breath and rubs his cheek along mine. “Is this how you do it?”

I feel everything: the coolness of his skin and the sharpness of his cheekbones and the cool eddy as he sucks in my scent and the warm current as he sighs.

Yes. That is how you do it. This—I turn my head so more of my skin touches his—this is how you do it.

He nuzzles closer, the damp softness of his lips against the spot where jaw joins neck, and I feel the promise of it all.

Then he whispers in my ear.

—

The weight is heavy on two legs, and the ground is uneven and cold and covered with rigid twigs that puncture and scrape my bare soles.

It’s good, I think. The distraction. Reminding me always of the harsh realities of Pack life. Surviving means strength to strength and power to power. It does not accommodate the coming together of two scarred and lonely wolves.

—

“Yours,” he said. “Mine.”

About the Author: Maria Vale is a journalist who has worked for Publishers Weekly, Glamour magazine, Redbook, the Philadelphia Inquirer. She is a logophile and a bibliovore and a worrier about the world. Trained as a medievalist, she tries to shoehorn the language of Beowulf into things that don’t really need it. She lives in New York with her husband, two sons and a long line of dead plants. No one will let her have a pet.

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Long and Short Reviews welcomes Maria Vale who is celebrating the recent release of her newest book A Wolf Apart. Enter the Rafflecopter at the end of the post for a chance to win a copy of The Last Wolf. Also, see our review here!

Can a human truly make room in her heart for the Wild?

Thea Villalobos has long since given up trying to be what others expect of her. So in Elijah Sorensson she can see through the man of the world to a man who is passionate to the point of heartbreak. But something inside him is dying…

Elijah Sorensson has all kinds of outward success: bespoke suits, designer New York City apartment, women clamoring for his attention. Except Elijah despises the human life he’s forced to endure. He’s Alpha of his generation of the Great North Pack, and the wolf inside him will no longer be restrained…

Enjoy an Excerpt

“Here’s the truth. I didn’t do anything. The letter you wrote for Liebling? The one that you showed me in New York? It would have been just fine as it was. A change or two maybe to make it stronger. Our letterhead, sure. But it was fine as it was.”

“So why did you say it was more complicated?” The smell of coffee hits the back of my throat as she spoons the grounds into the filter.

“Because I wanted to see you again.”

She stops for a moment before screwing the lid back on and returning it to the cold box.

“That’s kind of pathetic.”

“I know. I’m not used to being pathetic, but there it is.”

A thin wisp of steam starts to curl up from the kettle.

“And why are you here now?”

“Same reason. I wanted to see you again, and after yesterday…I wasn’t sure you would.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t have.” She raises her arm, stroking her cheek with the back of her hand. “Your skin is so soft,” she whispers, low and deep and urgent [imitating me]. “You should never wear anything but silk.”

If I weren’t so humiliated by the words, the sound of her voice would have made me come right there.

She grins and hands me the mug and a spoon.

“When you’re done with that, give it back.”

“What?”

“The spoon. I’ve only got one.”

She pours milk into the bowl in front of her and then coffee, and then taking the spoon from my hand, she swirls the clouds of milk through her bowl of coffee.

It is so terribly, achingly intimate.

There is, I realize, looking over the rim of my mug, only one of anything here. A single cup. A single bowl. A single small skillet. A single pot. A single chair. A single plate. A single towel hanging from the bathroom door.

The only thing that might accommodate more than one is the bed with its thick duvet and four pillows.

Doug wanted to expand Thea’s cabin. Install a refrigerator, a sofa, a TV. What did he say? “That’d be nice, right?” He wanted more. More noise, more stuff, more him.

But he missed the point of this place. Thea’s cabin isn’t just a shelter that could use modernizing and expanding; it’s a bulwark protecting her solitude. And no matter what he thought could be done, should be done, it would not be done, because there was no room here for more Doug or more of any man.

But…I am not any man. I am not a man at all. And as wolves, we understand what it is to be wordless. We understand the primal importance of silence.

She stirs distractedly, staring at the silence beyond the window.

“How long have you been here?”

“Four years,” she says, “give or take.”

“That’s a long time to be in the middle of nowhere. Do you ever get bored?”

“Bored? Never. I like the quiet. Helps me focus. For me, things get muddled when there are too many voices telling you what to do or how to be. Can I warm you up?”

You have got to be kidding me.

I glare down at the mountain ridge in my pants, pointing out that the only thing this woman with a steaming pot in her hand is offering to warm up is my coffee.

My…brain suddenly goes all curious about whether Doug is out of the picture. Because I don’t want him or anyone else offering to refill her.

“You don’t get lonely?”

“Sometimes. Not a big deal. Then I just make more effort to see friends. But most of the people I see need me. I like it. It feels more real than when someone’s squeezing you into their schedule, praying that you’ll cancel at the last minute.” She taps at the window with her finger, then wags the same finger. Even I, who am a creature of the forest, can’t see who she’s reprimanding. “Do you?” she asks. “Get lonely, I mean.”

“Me? Pffft. I see people all the time.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I think of all the clients I have spent time with, laughing and impressing and cajoling. And all the women I have spent time with, laughing and impressing and seducing. And in the end, have come home, vomited, and crawled into bed with a wolf-shaped hole in my chest.

“Yes. Sometimes.”

About the Author: Maria Vale is a journalist who has worked for Publishers Weekly, Glamour magazine, Redbook, and the Philadelphia Inquirer. She is a logophile and a bibliovore and a worrier about the world. Trained as a medievalist, she tries to shoehorn the language of Beowulf into things that don’t really need it. She currently lives in New York with her husband, two sons and a long line of dead plants. No one will let her have a pet.

Buy the book at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBooks, or Kobo.

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Long and Short Reviews welcomes Maria Vale who is visiting with us and sharing some early excerpts from The Last Wolf, the first book in her The Legend of All Wolves series, which will be released in February. Maria is giving away 2 advance copies of The Last Wolf and 2 posters – enter at the end of the post.

For three days out of thirty, when the moon is full and her law is iron, the Great North Pack must be wild.

If she returns to her Pack, the stranger will die.
But if she stays…

Silver Nilsdottir is at the bottom of her Pack’s social order, with little chance for a decent mate and a better life. Until the day a stranger stumbles into their territory, wounded and beaten, and Silver decides to risk everything on Tiberius Leveraux. But Tiberius isn’t all he seems, and in the fragile balance of the Pack and wild, he may tip the destiny of all wolves…

Enjoy an Excerpt

In which Tiberius eats dinner with the hostile Pack and learns that not everything that is small and cute and furry is a puppy

Upstairs, the screen door opens and closes with a slam. Orders are barked out, and heavy treads stomp back and forth between hall and kitchen. As the Pack passes the stairs to the basement, the complex fragrances of the dishes they’re carrying waft down to us. Benches start scraping across floors, and I push Ti’s extra clothes into a bag and push the man himself up the stairs.

As soon as we reach the hall, the smile I hadn’t even known I was wearing fades. The Alphas of every echelon are standing around the heavy hand-scraped tables, each one of them holding tight onto their seaxs, the sharp daggers that all adult Pack wear at their waist.

There are strict penalties for attacking a table guest, and John will kill anyone who tries, but edgy wolves are edgy wolves and not always in control. I am this man’s shielder, and I face them, my thighs coiled low, my shoulders squared, and my lips curled back from my teeth, so these wolves know that I will fight, even in skin.

Tock, tock, tock.

Behind me, Ti is not even facing the right way. He’s looking at the table, opening up casseroles with one hand, while flicking his spoon up and down against his bowl with the thumb of the other (tock, tock, tock). As though there weren’t a hundred evil-eyed wolves staring holes into his back.

He lifts a hand-thrown lid and sniffs the saag paneer. Another basket with bread. A selection of Corningware casseroles hold cauliflower and lentil stew; sun-dried tomatoes and fresh cheese; corn chowder. Pasta with herbs. Egg salad.

“So…you’re vegetarians?” Ti says to no one in particular.

“Not vegetarians,” John answers. “But not carrion eaters either. You are our guest,” he says loudly to remind all the wolves with itchy palms about our very ancient and very strict rules of hospitality, “and free to hunt anywhere on our land, but Shifter? You must eat what you kill.”

“John?” I whisper, pulling at his elbow, and he bends down. “His name?”

John scratches his graying beard for a moment before pointing to one casserole dish in Blue Onion pattern. “Tiberius?” he says, “My personal favorite is the cauliflower and lentils. Be sure to add some toasted hazelnuts.”

Someone coughs, but John has broken the spell, and the Alphas reclaim their seats. Though when they do, they seem to have doubled in size, their broad shoulders and thighs now claiming whatever spare space we might have squeezed into.

I bend my head toward one of the empty tables. Those too will be full when the Offlanders come home for the Iron Moon, but for now, we sit there alone, side by side. The Pack starts talking again, bent low over their food because our table manners at home are not all they should be.

Naturally, there is a lot of talk about Ti, and while no one will question John’s decision, it is one of the peculiarities of the Old Tongue that the word giest means guest and stranger and enemy, so when someone speaks of our new giest, everyone understands the double meaning.

Then John says that’s enough Old Tongue for now.

A handful of pups scrabble up the stairs from the basement storage. They’re chasing something, taking wide frantic turns around the room.

“Mouse,” I whisper to Ti. “They don’t last long here.”

“She didn’t take me down,” Eudemos complains loudly.

“I mean, I was still standing.” He hacks at the big loaf of bread with his seax. “Where’sa butter?

“I neber submided,” he insists, a pale-yellow crumb flying across the table. He uses his thumb to push the mouthful back in. “If what she did counts as submitting now, I think we should change the laws, thass all I’m sayin’.”

“Deemer?” says John.

Victor, our Deemer, our thinker about Pack law, crosses his arms and looks at the ceiling for a moment. “The law does say an opponent must be pinned down,” he says. “But while Eudemos was not down, he was very definitely pinned, and that is the more important part of the law.”

“Your Alpha agrees. The spirit of the law was upheld.”

And with that, Eudemos will not say another word about the matter.

The mouse finally caught, Golan trots up to John, followed by a roiling mass of fur. He lays his tiny prey at the Alpha’s feet. John looks at it, making sure the kill was clean and the mouse didn’t suffer, then he scratches Golan’s ear and wishes him good eating.

Suddenly, Ti jumps and lowers his hand to fend off a juvenile, who has her damp nose in his crotch.

“Rainy!” shouts Gran Moira. “Come here!”

Rainy cocks her head to the side and stares up at Ti before running off.

“Why do you have so many dogs?” Ti asks, his legs now tightly crossed.

“Nooo,” I hiss. “They’re not…” It’s too late. He didn’t say it loudly, but our hearing is very good, and one set of very good ears is all that’s needed. One by one, the Pack falls silent, appalled by what Ti has called our children.

Four fuzzy snouts peek over the arm of one of the fireplace sofas. Other pups glower down from the curved stairs that lead up to the children’s quarters.

Then the only sound is the brittle crunch of Golan’s sharp, white teeth.

“Excuse me, Shifter?” pipes a small voice. A ten-year-old girl with long, pale-brown curls, wearing shorts and a much-washed blue T-shirt with a picture of a pickle on it, scratches the back of her calf with a bare foot. “I am sorry I smelled your crutch?” she says, glancing back at Gran Moira, who mouths the word crotch with an encouraging smile. “But that’s what I said. ‘Crutch.’”

“It’s ‘crotch,’” corrects Gran Moira.

“Oh,” Rainy says, turning back to Ti. “I am sorry I smelled your crotch? I didn’t mean to be offensive. I am just in the Year of First Shoes?”

The Year of First Shoes is the first twelve moons in the juvenile wing, when you’re too old to scamper around and be fed tidbits from the table, and you’re too young to see even the remotest advantage to being human. It’s when we first wear shoes and clothes.

It is a terrible, terrible time.

About the Author:
Maria Vale is a journalist who has worked for Publishers Weekly, Glamour magazine, Redbook, the Philadelphia Inquirer. She is a logophile and a bibliovore and a worrier about the world. Trained as a medievalist, she tries to shoehorn the language of Beowulf into things that don’t really need it. She currently lives in New York with her husband, two sons and a long line of dead plants. No one will let her have a pet.

Buy the book at Amazon, Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, Chapters, iBooks, or Indiebound.

a Rafflecopter giveaway
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